“Cousin Hester!” said Flora, coming up to me, and bending down to whisper in my ear, “I should like to give them prizes, and have a little feast here—may I? they are always happy, and such a thing pleases everybody. May I tell Miss Saville and the teacher? Please do say yes—cousin Hester?”
“Surely, Flora, if you will like it,” said I.
So Flora ran to intimate her purpose—and there was a great flutter, and stir, and brightening among the little faces. Then she chose to think, or at least to say, that I would like to hear them sing—and the children rose with blushing pleasure, and sang a loud shrill hymn at the top of their voices, led by the schoolmistress, while Flora shook her head, and smiled, and frowned, and nodded, keeping time, which the singers were nobly indifferent to. She did not like it the less, because it was sung badly—she laughed and clapped her hands when a few stray voices fell behind the others and prolonged the strain, to the discomfiture of the schoolmistress. If there was not much melody, there was enough fun in the performance, and enough goodwill and satisfaction on the part of the performers to please Flora—and she concluded by begging a half-holiday for them, after she had first come and asked my permission, like a dutiful girl as she was. Though Flora was so ready to take care of me, she never forgot that, for the moment, I represented mamma, and was an authority over her; for to be dutiful and obedient was in the very nature of this sweet simple-hearted girl.
When we left the school we went with Miss Saville, at her especial desire, to look at two empty cottages, which she thought might be made into a house for her. I stood and listened with no great edification as she explained how doors could be opened in the wall between them, and the homely arrangements of the interior altered to suit her. A bit of waste ground behind, she proposed to enclose for a yard. “The friends of the old people will willingly give me a day’s labor now and then, and the gardener at the Rectory will see everything kept in order,” she said. “Here, Mrs. Southcote, I propose building a sitting-room and bed-chamber for myself at my own expense, which will leave abundant accommodation for my patients. May I expect you now and then to see how we are getting on? I don’t expect anything more. No! my dear; I knew you would change your mind—make no apologies—I felt sure of it all along.”
I was not much flattered by thinking that Miss Saville was quite sure of it all along—but I thought it most prudent to say nothing on this now. Flora was extremely interested in all the arrangements. “I will come whenever I am at Cottiswoode, Miss Saville,” she said, eagerly; “for, of course, my cousin is not strong, and it would be quite wrong for her to fatigue herself. I shall like so much to come. May we not go and see old Sally, now, cousin Hester! and the other old people? They are such famous story-tellers. I like old people for that; but, oh dear, how selfish I am! You are looking quite pale and tired out. Will you lean upon me, cousin? or may I run and tell them to get out the pony carriage? I am sure you are hardly able to walk home.”
But I was able, in spite of Flora’s fears. Miss Saville returned with us, looking jealously about her, and seeming to have a certain terror of us, and of encountering her strayed friend. We stopped at the Rectory gate to take leave of her, but she did not seem inclined to leave us then. “I am at leisure this morning—I will walk on with you;” but I could see very well that it was not any particular degree of leisure, but something much more important which made her accompany us. She grew more and more agitated as we approached Cottiswoode—still no one was in sight; but I thought I had caught a glimpse of the Rector himself, telegraphing at a window as we passed, shaking his head and saying “no,” and it was not possible to avoid perceiving Miss Saville’s anxiety, and her anxious looks around her. At last, as Flora clambered over a low stone fence in search of a plant, which she thought she recognised among the grass, Miss Saville addressed herself to me.
“I think it best to mention it, Mrs. Southcote, connected as our families are,” she said in an agitated tone, “though being an only child, you can scarcely know what family anxieties are, we have a brother with us—I am sure you have a right to be surprised—but really his state of mind is such that we could not introduce him into society. He has been a gay man in his day—and he has—oh! such a grief, my dear, to William and me!—fallen into ways—well, that we can’t approve of. He was bred an attorney—a lawyer, and was in very good practice till he got into misfortune. I am sorry to say poor Richard has not been able to bear misfortune, and he came down here for his health; and we have tried to keep him very quiet, the only thing to do him good—but this morning, you see, he has stolen out, and we can’t tell where he is gone. My dear, don’t look alarmed—he is not insane. Dear me! how could I imply such a thing—far different from that—he is very clever—but, you know, we don’t want him to trouble Mr. Southcote—or—or any one—and when he takes anything into his head he is very firm, and will not be persuaded out of it. He has taken a violent fancy since ever he came of speaking to Mr. Southcote or yourself—and we have done all we could to prevent him—for you know, we don’t like to show our family troubles any more than other people—especially as William is a clergyman; but I must tell you—hush! here is the young lady coming back—and if you meet my poor brother, Mrs. Southcote, do not be afraid.”
Miss Saville ended this very long speech, out of breath with hurry and agitation, as Flora reappeared. If he was not a madman, why should I be afraid of him? and madman or not, what could Saville want with me? On my husband, of course, he had the claim of gratitude, and I could not resist my impulse to mention that.
“I think I saw him over at the Rectory window,” I said quietly, and in a tone which must have jarred dreadfully on Miss Saville’s excited ears. “Was not he the man who brought Mr. Southcote first to Cottiswoode? I recollect him; I trust my husband has not forgotten the claims his friend has upon him.”
I had scarcely spoken the words, when I was bitterly ashamed of them; and I felt my face burn under my companion’s eye. She was startled by my tone, and she had evidently forgotten, if, indeed, she ever clearly knew, that my husband’s possession of Cottiswoode had been any injury to me, who now shared it with him. When she answered, she spoke in a tone of pique—she saw a certain disrespect, but she did not see the bitterness in my tone.